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mmmmumm

THE WELL OF
THE SAINTS

By the Same Writer

THE ARAN ISLANDS

Illustrated by
Jack B. Yeats

THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD "

IN THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN .

RIDERS TO THE SEA ^

THE TINKER'S WEDDING

DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS '

KERRY AND WICKLOW

POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS

THE WELL OF THE SAINTS

A Comedy in Three Acts
By J. M. SYNGE

JOHN W. LUCE & COMPANY

BOSTON :::::::::: 1911

SCENE

Some lonely mountainous district
in the east of Ireland one or more
centuries ago.

The Well of the Saints was first pro-
duced iri the Abbey Theatre in February, 1905,
by the Irish National Theatre Society, under

\ the direction of W. G. Fay, and with the

1 following cast.

Martin DotU
Mary Doul
Timmy
Molly Byrne
Bride

Mat Simon
The Saint

W. G. Fay
Emma Vernon
George Roberts
Sara Allgood
Maire Nic Shiubhlaigh
P. Mac Shiubhlaigh
F. J. Fay

Other Girls and Men

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

Martin Doul, weather-beaten, blind beggar

Mary Doul, his Wife, weather-beaten, ugly
woman, blind also, nearly fifty

j TiMMY, a middle-aged, almost elderly, but
vigorous smith

Molly Byrne, fine-looking girl with fair hair

Bride, another handsome girl

Mat Simon

The Saint, a wandering Friar

Other Girls and Men

THE WELL OF THE SAINTS

ACT I

Roadside with big stones, etc., on the rights-
low loose wall at back with gap near centre;
at left, ruined doorway of church with bushes
. leside it. Martin Doul and Mary Doul grope
in on left and pass over to stones on right,
iwhere they sit.

MARY DOUL. What place are we now,
Martin Doul?

MARTIN DOUL. Passing the gap.

MARY DOUL — rawingr her head. — Th^
length of that! Well, the sun's getting warm
fthis day if it's late autumn itself.

MARTIN DOUL — putting out his hands
fin sun. — What way wouldn't it be warm and
fit getting high up in the south? You were
that length plaiting your yellow hair you have
^he morning lost on us, and the people are
lifter passing to the fair of Clash.

MARY DOUL. It isn't going to the fair,
?the time they do be driving their cattle and
they with a litter of pigs maybe squealing in
their carts, they'd give us a thing at all. (She

i6 The Well of the Saints

sits down.) It's well you know that, but y
must be talking.

MARTIN DOUL — sitting down hes\
her and beginning to shred rushes she gi2
him. — If I didn't talk I'd be destroyed in
short while listening to the clack you do
making, for you've a queer cracked voice, t
Lord have mercy on you, if it's fine to look
you are itself.

MARY DOUL. Who wouldn't have
cracked voice sitting out all the year in t
rain falling? It's a bad life for the voii
Martin Doul, though I've heard tell th<
isn't anything like the wet south wind dc
be blowing upon us for keeping a wh
beautiful skin — the like of my skin —
your neck and on your brows, and there is
anything at all like a fine skin for putti
splendour on a woman.

MARTIN DOUL—teasingly, but w
good humour. — I do be thinking odd times
don't know rightly what way you have yc
splendour, or asking myself, maybe, if y
have it at all, for the time I was a young h
and had fine sight, it was the ones with sw<
voices were the best in face.

MARY DOUL. Let you not be maki
the like of that talk when you've hea

The Well of the Saints 17

Timmy the smith, and Mat Simon, and Patch
Ruadh, and a power besides saying fine
things of my face, and you know rightly it
was " the beautiful dark woman " they did
call me in Ballinatone.

MARTIN DOUL — as before.— li it was
itself I heard Molly Byrne saying at the fall
of night it was little more than a fright you
were.

MARY DOUL — sharply.— She was jeal-
ous, God forgive her, because Timmy the
smith was after praising my hair

MARTIN DOVL — zvith mock irony.—
Jealous !

MARY DOUL. Ay, jealous, Martin
Doul ; and if she wasn't itself, the young and
silly do be always making game of them that's
dark, and they'd think it a fine thing if they
had us deceived, the way we wouldn't know
we were so fine-looking at all.

[She puts her hand to her face with a
complacent gesture.

MARTIN DOUL — a little plaintively.—
I do be thinking in the long nights it'd be a
grand thing if we corlrl ^^r- ourselves for orr
hour, or a minute itself, the way w^'fl kn*
surely we were the finest man and the fin.-
woman of the seven counties of the east —

i8 The Well of the Saints

(bitterly) and then the seeing rabble below
might be destroying their souls telling bad
lies, and we'd never heed a thing they'd say.

MARY DOUL. If you weren't a big fool
you wouldn't heed them this hour, Martin
Doul, for they're a bad lot those that have
their sight, and they do have great joy, the
time they do be seeing a grand thing, to let
on they don't see it at all, and to be telling
fool's lies, the like of what Molly Byrne was
telling to yourself.

MARTIN DOUL. If it's lies she does be
telling she's a sweet, beautiful voice you'd
never tire to be hearing, if it was only the
pig she'd be calling, or crying out in the long
grass, maybe, after her hens. (Speaking
pensively.) It should be a fine, soft, rounded
woman, I'm thinking, would have a voice the
like of that.

MARY DOUL — sharply again, scandal-
ized, — Let you not be minding if it's flat or
rounded she is; for she's a flighty, foolish
woman, you'll hear when you're off a long
way, and she making a great noise and laugh-
ing at the well.

MARTIN DOUL. Isn't laughing a nice
thing the time a woman's young?

MARY T>0\J1. — bitterly, — A nice thing

The Well of the Saints 19

is4t? A nice thing to hear a woman making
a loud braying laugh the like of that? Ah,
she's a great one for drawing the men, and
you'll hear Timmy himself, the time he does
be sitting in his forge, getting mighty fussy
if she'll come walking from Grianan, the way
you'll hear his breath going, and he wringing

I his hands.

I MARTIN DOUL — slightly piqued. — I've
heard him say a power of times it's nothing
at all she is when you see her at the side of

' you, and yet I never heard any man's breath

t getting uneasy the time he'd be looking on

I yourself.

I MARY DOUL. I'm not the like of the .
girls do be running round on the roads, swing-
ing their legs, and they with their necks out

I looking on the men. . . . Ah, there's a power

I of villainy walking the world, Martin Doul,
among them that do be gadding around with

f their gaping eyes, and their sweet words, and
they with no sense in them at all.

MARTIN DOUL — ^ad/3;.— It's the truth,
maybe, and yet I'm told it's a grand thing to
see a young girl walking the road.

MARY DOUL. You'd be as bad as the
rest of them if you had your sight, and I did
well, surely, not to marry a seeing man —

20 The Well of the Saints

it's scores would have had me and welcome —
for the seeing is a queer lot, and you'd never
know the thing they'd do.

[A momenfs pause.

MARTIN DOUL — listening. — There's
some one coming on the road.

MARY DOUL. Let you put the pith
away out of their sight, or they'll be picking
it out with the spying eyes they have, and
saying it's rich we are, and not sparing us a
thing at all.

[They bundle away the rushes. Timmy
the smith comes in on left.

MARTIN DOUL — with a begging voice.
— Leave a bit of silver for blind Martin, your
honour. Leave a bit of silver, or a penny
copper itself, and we'll be praying the Lord
to bless you and you going the way.

TIMMY — stopping before them. — And
you letting on a while back you knew my step !

\_He sits down.

MARTIN — with his natural voice. — I
know it when Molly Byrne's walking in front,
or when she's two perches, maybe, lagging
behind; but it's few times I've heard you
walking up the like of that, as if you'd met a
thing wasn't right and you coming on the road.

The Well of the Saints 21

TIMMY — hot and breathless, wiping his
face. — You've good ears, God bless you, if
you're a liar itself; for Fm after walking up
in great haste from hearing wonders in the
fair.

MARTIN DOUL — rather contemptuous-
ly. — You're always hearing queer wonderful
things, and the lot of them nothing at all;
but I'm thinking, this time, it's a strange
thing surely you'd be walking up before the
turn of day, and not waiting below to look
on them lepping, or dancing, or playing shows
on the green of Clash.

TIMMY — huffed. — I was coming to tell
you it's in this place there'd be a bigger
wonder done in a short while {Martin Doul
stops working) than was ever done on the
green of Clash, or the width of Leinster itself;
but you're thinking, maybe, you're too cute a
little fellow to be minding me at all.

MARTIN DOUL — amused, hut incredu-
lous. — There'll be wonders in this place, is it?

TIMMY. Here at the crossing of the
roads.

MARTIN DOUL. T never heard tell of
anything to happen in this place since the
night they killed the old fellow going home
with his gold, the Lord have mercy on him,

?2 The Well of the Saints

ind threw down his corpse into the bog. Let
them not be doing the like of that this night,
for it's ourselves have a right to the crossing
roads, and we don't want any of your bad
tricks, or your wonders either, for it's wonder
enough we are ourselves.

TIMMY. If I'd a mind I'd be telling you
of a real wonder this day, and the way you'll
be having a great joy, maybe, you're not
thinking on at all.

MARTIN DOUL — f«/^r^^/^d.— Are they
putting up a still behind in the rocks? It'd
be a grand thing if I'd sup handy the way I
wouldn't be destroying myself groping up
across the bogs in the rain falling.

TIMMY — still moodily.— It's not a still
they're bringing, or the like of it either.

MARY DOUL — persuasively, to Timmy,
— Maybe they're hanging a thief, above at
the bit of a tree. I'm told it's a great sight
to see a man hanging by his neck; but what
joy would that be to ourselves, and we not
seeing it at all ?

TIMMY — more pleasantly. — They're
hanging no one this day, Mary Doul, and yet,
with the help of God, you'll see a power
hanged before you die.

MARY DOUL. Well you've queer hum-

The Well of the Saints 23

bugging talk. . . . What way would I see a
power hanged, and I a dark woman since the
seventh year of my age?

TIMMY. Did ever you hear tell of a
place across a bit of the sea, where there is
an island, and the grave of the four beautiful
saints ?

MARY DOUL. Tve heard people have
walked round from the west and they speak-
ing of that.

TIMMY — impressively, — There's a green
ferny well, I'm told, behind of that place, and
if you put a drop of the water out of it on
the eyes of a blind man, you'll make him see
as well as any person is walking the world,

MARTIN DOUL — with excitement. — Is
that the truth, Timmy? I'm thinking you're
telling a lie.

TIMMY — gruffly. — Th2it' s the truth,
Martin Doul, and you may believe it now, for
you're after believing a power of things
weren't as likely at all.

MARY DOUL. Maybe we could send us
a young lad to bring us the water. I could
wash a naggin bottle in the morning, and I'm
thinking Patch Ruadh would go for It, if we
gave him a good drink, and the bit of money
we have hid in the thatch.

24 The Well of the Saints

TIMMY. It'd be no good to be sending a
sinful man the like of ourselves, for I'm told
the holiness of the water does be getting soiled
with the villainy of your heart, the time you'd
be carrying it, and you looking round on the
girls, maybe, or drinking a small sup at a still.

MARTIN DOUL — ttnVA disappointment.
— It'd be a long terrible way to be walking
ourselves, and I'm thinking that's a wonder
will bring small joy to us at all.

TIMMY — turning on him impatiently. —
What is it you want with your walking? It's
as deaf as blind you're growing if you're not
after hearing me say it's in this place the
wonder would be done.

MARTIN DOUL — with a flash of anger.
— If it is can't you open the big slobbering
mouth you have and say what way it'll be
done, and not be making blather till the fall
of night.

TIMMY — jumping up. — I'll be going on
now (Mary Doul rises), and not wasting time
talking civil talk with the like of you.

MARY DOUL — standing up, disguising
her impatience. — Let you come here to me,
Timmy, and not be minding him at all.
(Timmy stops, and she gropes up to him and
takes him by the coat). You're not huffy

The Well of the Saints 25

with myself, and let you tell me the whole
story and don't be fooling me more. ... Is
it yourself has brought us the water?

TIMMY. It is not, surely.

MARY DOT IL. Then tell us your wonder,
Timmy. . . . What person'U bring it at all?

TIMMY — relenting, — It's a fine holy
man will bring it, a saint of the Almighty God.

MARY DOUL — overawed. — A saint is
it?

TIMMY. Ay, a fine saint, who's going
round through the churches of Ireland, with
a long cloak on him, and naked feet, for he's
brought a sup of the water slung at his side,
and, with the like of him, any little drop is
enough to cure the dying, or to make the
blind see as clear as the gray hawks do be
high up, on a still day, sailing the sky.

MARTIN DOUL — feeling for his stick.
—What place is he, Timmy? I'll be walking
to him now.

TIMMY. Let you stay quiet, Martin.
He's straying around saying prayers at the
churches and high crosses, between this plar;
and the hills, and he with a great crowd go
ing behind — for it's fine prayers he does b?
saying, and fasting with it, till he's as thin as
one of the empty rushes you have there o^^

] ^,-

•26 The \Well of the Saints

your knee; then he'll be coming after to this
place to cure the two of you — we're after
telling him the way you are — and to say his
prayers in the church.

MARTIN DOUL — turning suddenly to
Mary Doul. — And we'll be seeing ourselves
this day. Oh, glory be to God, is it true
surely ?

MARY DOUL — very pleased, to Timmy.\
— Maybe I'd have time to walk down ani
get the big shawl I have below, for I do loo!
my best, I've heard them say, when F;
dressed up with that thing on my head.

TIMMY. You'd have time surely

MARTIN DOUL — listening. — Whishi
now. . . I hear people again coming by th
stream.

TIMMY — looking out left, puzded. — It':
the young girls I left walking after the Saini
. . . They're coming now {goes up to en-
trance) carrying things in their hands, an(
they walking as easy as you'd see a child walk
who'd have a dozen eggs hid in her bib.

MARTIN DOUL — listening. — That's
Molly Byrne, I'm thinking.

[Molly Byrne and Bride come on left anJ^
cross to Martin Doul, carrying water^
can, Saint's bell, and cloak.

[

The Well of the Saints 27

MOLLY — volubly, — Gk)d bless you, Mar-
tin. I've holy water here, from the grave of
the four saints of the west, will have you
cured in a short while and seeing like our-
selves

TIMMY — crosses to Molly, interrupting
her. — He's heard that. God help you. But
where at all is the Saint, and what way is he
after trusting the holy water with the likes of
you?

MOLLY BYRNE. He was afeard to go
a far way with the clouds is coming beyond,
so he's gone up now through the thick woods
to say a prayer at the crosses of Grianan, and
he's coming on this road to the church.

TIMMY— ^/t// astonished,— KnA he's af-
ter leaving the holy water with the two of
you? It's a wonder, surely.

[Comes down left a little.

MOLLY BYRNE. The lads told him
no person could carry them things through
the briars, and steep, slippy-feeling rocks he'll
be climbing above, so he looked round then,
and gave the water, and his big cloak, and his
bell to- the two of us, for young girls, says
he, are the cleanest holy people you'd see
walking the world.

[Mary Doul goes near seat.

28 The Well of the Saints

MARY DOUL — sits down, laughing to
herself. — Well, the Saint's a simple fellow,
and it's no lie.

MARTIN DOUL — leaning forward,
holding out his hands. — Let you give me the
water in my hand, Molly Byrne, the way
I'll know you have it surely.

MOLLY BYRNE — ^ww^ it to him.—
Wonders is queer things, and maybe it'd cure
you, and you holding it alone.

MARTIN DOUL — looking round.— It
does not, Molly. I'm not seeing at all. (He
shakes the can.) There's a small sup only.
Well, isn't it a great wonder the little trifling
thing would bring seeing to the blind, and be
showing us the big women and the young
girls, and all the fine things is walking the
world.

[He feels for Mary Doul and gives her
the can.

MARY DOUL — shaking if.— Well, glory
be to God

MARTIN DOUL — pointing to Bride,—
And what is it herself has, making sounds in
her hand?

BRIDE — crossing to Martin Doul. — It's
the Saint's bell; you'll hear him ringing out

The Well of the Saints 29

the time he'll be going up some place, to be
saying his prayers.

[Martin Doul holds out his hand; she
gives it to him.

MARTIN DOUL — nw^m^ iV.— It's a
sweet, beautiful sound.

MARY DOUL. You'd know, I'm think-
ing, by the httle silvery voice of it, a fasting
holy man was after carrying it a great way
at his side.

[Bride crosses a little right behind Martin
Doul.

MOLLY BYRNE — unfolding Saint's
cloak. — Let you stand up now, Martin Doul,
till I put his big cloak on you. {Martin Doul
rises J comes forward, centre a little.) The
way we'd see how you'd look, and you a saint
of the Almighty God.

MARTIN DOUL — standing up, a little
diffidently. — I've heard the priests a power
of times making great talk and praises of the
beauty of the saints.

[Molly Byrne slips cloak round him.

TIMMY — uneasily. — You'd have a right
to be leaving him alone, Molly. What would
the Saint say if he seen you making game with
his cloak?

30 The Well of the Saints

MOLLY BYRNE — recklessly.— How
would he see us, and he saying prayers in the
wood? {She turns Martin Doul round.)
Isn't that a fine, holy-looking saint, Timmy
the smith? {Laughing foolishly.) There's
a grand, handsome fellow, Mary Doul; and
if you seen him now you'd be as proud, I'm
thinking, as the archangels below, fell out
with the Almighty God.

MARY DOUL — with quiet confidence
going to Martin Doul and feeling his cloak. —
It's proud we'll be this day, surely,

[Martin Doul is still ringing.

MOLLY BYRNE — ^0 Martin Doul.— W:c
Would you think well to be all your life II
walking round the like of that, Martin Doul,
and you bell-ringing with the saints of God?

MARY DOUL — turning on her, fiercely.
— How would he be bell-ringing with the
saints of God and he wedded with myself? Isi

MARTIN DOUL. It's the truth she's T
saying, and if bell-ringing is a fine life, yet II
I'm thinking, maybe, it's better I am wedded
with the beautiful dark woman of Ballinatone.

MOLLY BYRNE — scornfully.— Yon'rt
thinking that, God help you; but it's little you|^
know of her at all.

MARTIN DOUL. It's little surely, andfe

The Well of the Saints 31

['m destroyed this day waiting to look upon
ler face.

TIMMY — awkwardly. — It's well you
know the way she is; for the like of you do
have great knowledge in the feeling of your
hands.

MARTIN DOUL- -still feeling the cloak.
• — We do, maybe. Yet it's little I know of
faces, or of fine beautiful cloaks, for it's few
^cloaks I've had my hand to, and few faces
(plaintively) ; for the young girls is mighty
jshy, Timmy the smith and it isn't much they
pieed me, though they do be saying I'm a
fcandsome man.

MARY DOUL — mockingly, with good
humour, — Isn't it a queer thing the voice he
>uts on him, when you hear him talking of
he skinny-looking girls, and he married with
I woman he's heard called the wonder of the
Vestern world?

TIMMY — pityingly. — The two of you
mil see a great wonder this day, and it's no
ie.

MARTIN DOUL. I've heard tell her
yellow hair, and her white skin, and her big
eyes are a wonder, surely

BRIDE — who has looked out left. —
Here's the Saint comin.o- from the srlvage of

]

32 The Well of the Saints

the wood. . . . Strip the cloak from him,
Molly, or he'll be seeing it now.

MOLLY BYRliE — hastily to Bride.—
Take the bell and put yourself by the stones.
{To Martin DouL) Will you hold your head
up till I loosen the cloak? (She pulls off the
cloak and throws it over her arm. Then she
pushes Martin Doul over and stands him be-
side Mary Doul.) Stand there now, quiet,
and let you net be saying a word.

\She and Bride stand a little on their left,
demurely, with bell, etc., in their
hands.

MARTIN DOUL — nervously arranging
his clothes. — Will he mind the way we are,
and not tidied or washed cleanly at all?

MOLLY BYRNE. He'll not see what way
you are. . . . He'd walk by the finest woman
in Ireland, I'm thinking, and not trouble tc
raise his two eyes to look upon her face. . . .
Whisht!

{The Saint comes left, with crowd.

SAINT. Are these the two poor people?

TIMMY — officiously.— They are, holy
father; they do be always sittinie^ here at fh
crossing of the roads, asking a bit of copp;:
from them that do pass, or stripping rushes
for lights, and they not mournful at all, but

The Well of the Saints 33

talking out straight with a full voice, and
making game with them that likes it.

SAINT — to Martin Doul and Mary Doul.
— It's a hard life youVe had not seeing sun
or moon, or the holy priests itself praying to
the Lord, but it's the like of you who are
brave in a bad time will make a fine use of
the gift of sight the Almighty God will bring
to you today. {He takes his cloak and puts
it about him.) It's on a bare starving rock
that there's the grave of the four beauties of
God, the way it's little wonder, I'm thinking,
if it's with bare starving people the water
should be used. {He takes the water and bell
and slings them round his shoulders.) So it's
to the like of yourselves I do be going, who
are wrinkled and poor, a thing rich men
would hardly look at at all, but would throw
a coin to or a crust of bread.

MARTIN DOUL — moving uneasily. —
When they look on herself, who is a fine
woman.

TIMMY — shaking him. — Whisht now,
and be listening to the Saint.

SAINT — looks at them a moment, con-
tinues. — If it's raggy and dirty you are itself,
I'm saying, the Almighty God isn't at all like
the rich men of Ireland; and, with the power
of the water I'm after bringing in a little

34 The Well of the Saints

curagh into Cashla Bay, He'll have pity on
you, and put sight into your eyes.

MARTIN DOUL — taking off his hat^
Vm ready now, holy father

SAINT — taking him by the hand. — I'll
cure you first, and then I'll come for your
wife. We'll go up now into the church, for
I must say a prayer to the Lord. (To Mary
Doul, as he moves off, ) And let you be mak-
ing your mind still and saying praises in your
heart, for it's a great wonderful thing when
the power of the Lord of the world is brought
down upon your like.

PEOPLE — pressing after him, — Come
now till we watch.

BRIDE. Come, Timmy.

SAINT — waving them back, — Stay back
where you are, for I'm not wanting a big
crowd making whispers in the church. Stay
back there, I'm saying, and you'd do well to
be thinking on the way sin has brought blind-
ness to the world, and to be saying a prayer
for your own sakes against false prophets and
heathens, and the words of women and smiths,
and all knowledge that would soil the soul or
the body of a man.

[People shrink back. He goes into
church. Mary Doul gropes half-way

The Well op the Saints 35

towards the door and kneels near path.
People form a group at right.

TIMMY. Isn't it a fine, beautiful voice
he has, and he a fine, brave man if it wasn't
for the fasting?

BRIDE. Did you watch him moving his
hands ?

MOLLY BYRNE. It'd be a fine thing if
some one in this place could pray the like of
him, for I'm thinking the water from our own
blessed well would do rightly if a man knew
the way to be saying prayers, and then there'd
be no call to be bringing water from that wild
place, where, I'm told, there are no decent
houses, or fine-looking people at all.

BRIDE — who is looking in at door from
right. — Look at the great trembling Martin
has shaking him, and he on his knees.

TIMMY — anxiously. — God help him. . .
What will he be doing when he sees his wife
this day? I'm thinking it was bad work we
did when we let on she was fine-looking, and
not a wrinkled, wizened hag the way she is.

MAT SIMON. Why would he be vexed,
and we after giving him great joy and pride,
the time he was dark.?

MOLLY BYRNE — sitting down in Mary
DouVs seat and tidying her hair. — If it's

36 The Well of the Saints

vexed he is itself, he'll have other things now
to think on as well as his wife; and what does
any man care for a wife, when it's two weeks
or three, he is looking on her face?

MAT SIMON. That's the truth now,
Molly, and it's more joy dark Martin got from
the lies we told of that hag is kneeling by the
path than your own man will get from you,
day or night, and he living at your side.

MOLLY BYRNE — rf^/Jan%.— Let you
not be talking. Mat Simon, for it's not your-
self will be my man, though you'd be crow-
ing and singing fine songs if you'd that hope
in you at all.

TIMMY — shocked, to Molly Byrne.—
Let you not be raising your voice when the i
Saint's above at his prayers.

BRIDE — crying ow/.— Whisht. . . .
Whisht. . . . I'm thinking he's cured.

MARTIN DOUL — crying out in the
church. — Oh, glory be to God. . . .

SAINT — solemnly. — Laus Patri sit et
Filio cum Spiritu Paraclito
Qui Suae dono gratiae misertus est Hiber-
niae. . . .

MARTIN BOITL— ecstatically.— Oh, glory
be to God, I see now surely. ... I see the
walls of the church, and the green bits of

The Well of the Saints 37

ferns in them, and yourself, holy father, and
the great width of the slcy.

' [He runs out half-foolish with joy, and

comes past Mary Doul as she

scrambles to her feet, drawing a little

away from her as he goes by.

TIMMY — to the others. — He doesn't

know her at all.

[The Saint comes out behind Martin

Doul, and leads Mary Doul into the

church. Martin Doul comes on to the

People. The men are between him cmd

the Girls; he verifies his position with

his stick.

MARTIN 1)0151. — crying out joyfully.—

That's Timmy, I know Timmy by the black of

his head. . . . That's Mat Simon, I know

Mat by the length of his legs. . . . That

should be Patch Ruadh, with the gamey eyes

in him, and the fiery hair. {He sees Molly

Byrne on Mary DouVs seat, and his voice

changes completely.) Oh, it was no lie they

told me, Mary Doul. Oh, glory to God and

the seven saints I didn't die and not see you

at all. The blessing of God on the water, and

the feet carried it round through the land.

The blessing of God on this day, and them

that brought me the Saint, for it's grand hair

38 The Well of the Saints

you have (she lowers her head a little con-
fused), and soft skin, and eyes would make
the saints, if they were dark awhile and see-
ing again, fall down out of the sky. (He
goes nearer to her.) Hold up your head,
Mary, the way 1*11 see it's richer I am than
the great kings of the east. Hold up your
head, Fm saying, for it's soon you'll be seeing
me, and I not a bad one at all.

[He touches her and she starts up.

MOLLY BYRNE. Let you keep away
from me, and not be soiling my chin.

[People laugh heartily.

MARTIN DOUL — bewildered. — It's
Molly's voice you have.

MOLLY BYRNE. Why wouldn't I have
my own voice? Do you think I'm a ghost?

MARTIN DOUL. Which of you all is
herself? (He goes up to Bride.) Is it you
is Mary Doul ? I'm thinking you're more the
like of what they said (peering at her.) For
you've yellow hair, and white skin, and it's
the smell of my own turf is rising from your
shawl.

[He catches her shawl.

BRIDE — pulling cmay her shawl. — I'm

not your wife, and let you get out of my way.

[The People laugh again.

The Well of the Saints 39

MARTIN DOUL — with misgiving, to an-
other Girl. — Is it yourself it is? You're not
so fine-looking, but I'm thinking you'd do,
with the grand nose you have, and your nice
hands and your feet.

GIRL — scornfully. — I never seen any
person that took me for blind, and a seeing
woman, I'm thinking, would never wed the
like of you.

[She turns away, and the People laugh
once more, drawing back a little and
leaving him on their left.

PEOPLE — jeeringly. — Try again, Mar-
tin, try again, and you'll be finding her yet.

MARTIN "DOUL — passionately.— V^htTt
is it you have her hidden away? Isn't it a
black shame for a drove of pitiful beasts the
like of you to be making game of me, and
putting a fool's head on me the grand day of
my life? Ah, you're thinking you're a fine
lot, with your giggling, weeping eyes, a
fine lot to be making game of myself and the
woman I've heard called the great wonder of
the west.

[During this speech, which he gives with
his back towards the church, Mary
Doul has come out with h^r sight

40 The Well of the Saints

cured, and come down towards the
right with a silly simpering smile, tUl
she is a little behind Martin Doul.

MARY HOULf—when he pauses.— VJhi^ti
of you is Martin Doul?

MARTIN DOUL — wheeling round.— It's
her voice surely.

[They stare at each other blankly,

MOLLY BYRNE — ^c? MarHn Doul.—
Go up now and take her under the chin and
be speaking the way you spoke to myself.

MARTIN DOUL — i« a low voice, with
intensity. — If I speak now, FU speak hard to
the two of you

MOLLY BYRNE — /o Mary Doul.—
You're not saying a word, Mary. What is
it you think of himself, with the fat legs on
him, and, the little neck like a ram?

MARY DOUL. Fm thinking it's a poor
thing when the Lord God gives you sight and
puts the like of that man in your way.

MARTIN DOUL. It's «n your two
knees you should be thanking the Lord God
youVc net looking on yourstlf, for if it was
yourself you seen you'd be running round in
a short while like the old screeching mad-
woman is running round in the glen.

MARY DOUL — beginning to realize her-

The Well of the Saints 41

self. — If I'm not so fine as some of them said,
I have my hair, and big eyes, and my white
skin-

MARTIN DOUL — breaking out into a
passionate cry. — Your hair, and your big
eyes, is it? . . . I'm telling you there isn't
a wisp on any gray mare on the ridge of the
world isn't finer than the dirty twist on your
: head. There isn't two eyes in any starving
sow isn't finer than the eyes you were calling
I blue like the sea.

MARY DOUL — interrupting him. — It's
the devil cured you this day with your talking
of sows ; it's the devil cured you this day, I'm
saying, and drove you crazy with lies.

MARTIN DOUL. Isn't it yourself is
after playing lies on me, ten years, in the day
and in the night ; but what is that to you now
the Lord God has given eyes to me, the way
I see you an old wizendy hag, was never fit
to rear a child to me itself.

MARY DOUL. I wouldn't rear a
crumpled whelp the like of you. It's many a
woman is married with finer than yourself
should be praising God if she's no child, and
isn't loading the earth with things would make
the heavens lonesome above, and they scaring
the larks, and the crows, and the angels pass-
ing in the sky.

42 The Well of the Saints

MARTIN DOUL. Go on now to be seek-
ing a lonesome place where the earth can hide
you away; go on now, I'm saying, or you'll
be having men and women with their knees
bled, and they screaming to Grod for a holy
water would darken their sight, for there's
no man but would liefer be blind a hundred
years, or a thousand itself, than to be looking
on your like.

MARY DOUL — raising her stick.— May-
be if Ihit you a strong blow you'd be blind

again, and having what you want

[The Saint is seen in the church doot
with his head bent in prayer.

MARTIN DOUL — raising his stick ani
driving Mary Doul hack towards left. — Lei
you keep off from me now if you wouldn't s|>l
have me strike out the little handful of brains (d
you have about on the road.

[He is going to strike her, hut Timm)
catches him hy the arm.

TIMMY. Have you no shame to be mak*
ing a great row, and the Saint above sayinj
his prayers?

MARTIN DOUL. What is it I care foi
the like of him? {Struggling to free him
self). Let me hit her one good one, for tw^

th
n

t -

The Well of the Saints 43

love of the Almighty God, and I'll be quiet
after till I die.

TIMMY — shaking him. — Will you whisht,
Fm saying.

SAINT — coming forward, centre. — Are
their minds troubled with joy, or is their sight
uncertain, the way it does often be the day a
person is restored?

TIMMY. It's too certain their sight is,
holy father; and they're after making a great
fight, because they're a pair of pitiful shows.

SAINT — coming between them. — May
the Lord who has given you sight send a little
sense into your heads, the way it won't be on
your two selves you'll be looking — on two
pitiful sinners of the earth — but on the
splendour of the Spirit of God, you'll see an
odd time shining out through the big hills,
and steep streams falling to the sea. For if
it's on the like of that you do be thinking,
you'll not be minding the faces of men, but
you'll be saying prayers and great praises, till
you'll be living the way the great saints do be
living, with little but old sacks, and skin
covering their bones. (To Timmy.) Leave,
him go now, you're seeing he's quiet again.
(He frees Martin Doul.) And let you (he
turns to Mary Doul) not be raising your

44 The Well of the Saints

voice, a bad thing in a woman ; but let the lot
of you, who have seen the power of the Lord,
be thinking on it in the dark night, and be
saying to yourselves it's great pity and love
He has for the poor, starving people of
Ireland. {He gathers his cloak about him,)
And now the Lord send blessing to you all,
for I am going on to Annagolan, where there
is a deaf woman, and to Laragh, where there
are two men without sense, and to Glenassil,
where there are children blind from their
birth; and then Fm going to sleep this night
in the bed of the holy Kevin, and to be prais-
ing Grod, and asking great blessing on you all.

[He bends his head.

cxniTAiK

ACT II

Village roadside, on left the door of a forge,
with broken wheels, etc., lying about. A well
near centre, with board above it, and room to
pass behind it. Martin DotU is sitting near
forge, cutting sticks.

TIMMY — heard hammering inside forge,
then calls. — Let you make haste out there.
. . . ril be putting up new fires at the turn
of day, and you haven't the half of them cut
yet.

MARTIN DOVL — gloomily.— It's de-
stroyed ril be whacking your old thorns till
the turn of day, and I with no food in my
stomach would keep the life in a pig. (He
turns towards the door.) Let you come out
here and cut them yourself if you want them
cut, for there's an hour every day when a
nian has a right to his rest.

TIMMY — coming out, with a hammer,
impatiently. — Do you want me to be driving
you oflf again to be walking the roads? There
you are now, and I giving you your food, and
a comer to sleep, and money with it; and, to
hear the talk of you, you'd think I was after
beating you, or stealing your gold.

46 The Well of the Saints

MARTIN DOUL. You'd do it handy,
maybe, if Fd gold to steal.

TIMMY — throws down hammer; picks
up some of the sticks already cut, and throws
them into door,) There's no fear of your
having gold — a lazy, basking fool the like
of you.

MARTIN DOUL. No fear, maybe, and
I here with yourself, for it's more I got a
while since and I sitting blinded in Grianan,
than I get in this place working hard, and
destroying myself, the length of the day.

TIMMY — stopping with amazement, —
Working hard? {He goes over to him.) FU
teach you to work hard, Martin Doul. Strip
off your coat now, and put a tuck in your
sleeves, and cut the lot of them, while I'd rake
the ashes from the forge, or I'll not put up
with you another hour itself.

MARTIN DOUL — horrified, — Would
you have me getting my death sitting out in
the black wintry air with no coat on me at all?

TIMMY — -zt^VA authority, — Str\i^ it off
now, or walk down upon che road.

MARTIN 'DOV'L — bitterly, — Oh, God
help me! {He begins taking off his coat,)
I've heard tell you stripped the sheet from
your wife and you putting her down into the

The Well of the Saints 47

frave, and that there isn't the like of you for
ducking^ your living ducks, the short days,
md leavingnSiem running round in their skins,
in the great rains and the cold. {He tucks up
his sleeves.) Ah, I've heard a power of queer
things of yourself, and there isn't one of them
ru not believe from this day, and be telling
to the boys.

TIMMY — pulling over a big stick. — Let
you cut that now, and give me rest from your
talk, for I'm not heeding you at all.

MARTIN DOVL — taking stick.— Thsit's
a hard, terrible stick, Timmy; and isn't it a
poor thing to be cutting strong timber the like
of that, when it's cold the bark is, and slippy
with the frost of the air?

TIMMY — gathering up another armful
of sticks. — What way wouldn't it be cold, and
it freezing since the moon was changed?

[He goes into forge.

MARTIN DOUL — querulously, as he cuts
slowly. — What way, indeed, Timmy? For
it's a raw, beastly day we do have each day,
till I do be thinking it's well for the blind
don't be seeing them gray clouds driving on
the hill, and don't be looking on people with
their noses red, the like of your nose, and

48 The Well of the Saints

their eyes weeping and watering, the like of
your eyes, God help you, Timmy the smith.

TIMMY — seen blinking in doorway. — Is
it turning now you are against your sight?

MARTIN DOUL — very miserably.— It's
a hard thing for a man to have his sight, and
he living near to the like of you (he cuts a
stick and throws it away), or wed with a wife/^
(cuts a stick) ; and I do be thinking it should
be a hard thing for the Almighty God to be
looking on the world, bad days, and on men
the like of yourself walking around on it, and
they slipping each way in the muck.

TIMMY — with pot-hooks which he taps
on anvil. — You'd have a right to be minding,
Martin Doul, for it's a power the Saint cured
lose their sight after a while. Mary DouFi
dimming again, I've heard them say; and Tin
thinking the Lord, if he hears you making
that talk, will have little pity left for you at
all.

MARTIN DOUL. There's not a bit of
fear of me losing my sight, and if it's a dark
day itself it's too well I see every wicked
wrinkle you have round by your eye.

TIMMY — looking at him sharply, — The
day's not dark since the clouds broke in the
east.

The Well of the Saints 49

MARTIN DOUL. Let you not be tor-
menting yourself trying to make me afeard.
You told me a power of bad lies the time
I was blind, and it's right now for you
to stop, and be taking your rest (Mary Doul
comes in unnoticed on right with a sack filled
with green stuff on her arm), for it's little
ease or quiet any person would get if the
big fools of Ireland weren't weary at times.
(He looks up and sees Mary Doul.) Oh.
glory be to God, she's coming again.

[He begins to work busily with his back
to her.

TIMMY — amused, to Mary Doul, as she
is going by without looking at them. — Look
on him now, Mary Doul. You'd be a great
one for keeping him steady at his work, for
he's after idling and blathering to this hour
from the dawn of day.

MARY DOUL — ^/f#/y.— Of what is it
you're speaking, Timmy the smith?

TIMMY — laughing. — Of himself, surely.
Look on him there, and he with the shirt on
him ripping from his back. You'd have a
right to come round this night, I'm thinking,
and put a stitch into his clothes, for it's long
enough you are not speaking one to the other.

50 The Well of the Saints

' MARY DOUL. Let the two of you not
torment me at all.

[She goes out left, with her head in the
air.

MARTIN DOUL — stops work and looks
after her. — Well, isn't it a queer thing she
can't keep herself two days without looking
on my face?

TIMMY — jeeringly. — Looking on your
face is it? And she after going by with her
head turned the way you'd see a priest going
where there'd be a drunken man in the side
ditch talking with a girl. {Martin Doul gets
up and goes to corner of forge, and looks
out left.) Come back here and don't mind
her at all. Come back here, I'm saying,
you've no call to be spying behind her since
she went off, and left you, in place of break-
ing her heart, trying to keep you in the
decency of clothes and food.

MARTIN DOUL'— crying out indignant-
ly. — You know rightly, Timmy, it was my-
self drove her away.

TIMMY. That's a lie you're telling, yet
it's little I care which one of you was driving
the other, and let you walk back here, I^m
saying, to your work.

The Well of the Saints 51

MARTIN DOUL — turning round.— Vm
coming, surely.

[He stops and looks out right, going a
step or two towards centre.

TIMMY. On what is it you're gaping,
Martin Doul?

MARTIN DOUL. There's a person walk-
ing above. . . . It's Molly Byrne, I'm think-
ing, coming down with her can.

TIMMY. If she is itself let you not be
idling this day, or minding her at all, and let
you hurry with them sticks, for I'll want you
in a short while to be blowing in the forge.

[He throws down pot-hooks.

MARTIN DOUL — cr^^iw^ out.— Is it
roasting me now you'd be? (Turns back and
sees pot-hooks; he takes them up.) Pot-
hooks? Is it over them you've been inside
sneezing and sweating; since the dawn of day?

TIMMY — resting himself on anvil, with
satisfaction. — I'm making a power of things
you do have when you're settling with a wife,
Martin Doul; for I heard tell last night the
Saint'U be passing again in a short while, and
I'd have him wed Molly with myself. . . .
He'd do it, I've heard them say, for not a
penny at all.

MARTIN DOUL — lays down hooks and

52 The Well of the Saints

looks at him steadily. — MoUy'U be saying
great praises now to the Almighty God and
He giving her a fine, stout, hardy man the
Hke of you.

TIMMY — uneasily, — And why wouldn't
she, if she's a fine woman itself?

MARTIN DOUL — looking up right.—
Why wouldn't she, indeed, Timmy? ....
The Almighty God's made a fine match in the
two of you, for if you went marrying a
woman was the like of yourself you'd be
having the fearfullest little children, I'm
thinking, was ever seen in the world.

TIMMY — seriously offended, — God for-
give you I if you're an ugly man to be looking
at, I'm thinking your tongue's worse than
your view.

MARTIN DOUL — hurt aJso.— Isn't it
destroyed with the cold I am, and if I'm ugly
itself I never seen anyone the like of you for
dreepiness this day, Timmy the smith, and
I'm thinking now herself 's coming above
you'd have a right to step up into your old
shanty, and give a rub to your face, and not
be sitting there with your bleary eyes, and
your big nose, the like of an old scarecrow
stuck down upon the road.

TIMMY — looking up the road uneasily. —

The Well of the Saints 53

She's no call to mind what way I look, and I
after building a house with four rooms in it
above on the hill. {He stands up,) But it's
a queer thing the way yourself and Mary Doul
are after setting every person in this place,
and up beyond to Rathvanna, talking of
nothing, and thinking of nothing, but the way
they do be looking in the face. {Going
towards forge,) It's the devil's work you're
after doing with your talk of fine looks, and
I'd do right, maybe, to step in and wash the
blackness from my eyes.

[He goes into forge. Martin Doul rubs
his face furtively with the tail of his
coat. Molly Byrne comes on right
with a water-can, and begins to fill it
at the well.

MARTIN DOUL. God save you, Molly
Byrne.

MOLLY BYRNE — indifferently.— God
save you.

MARTIN DOUL. That's a dark, gloomy
day, and the Lord have mercy on us all.

MOLLY BYRNE. Middling dark.

MARTIN DOUL. It's a power of dirty
days, and dark mornings, and shabby-looking
fellows {he makes a gesture over his

54 The Well of the Saints

shoulder) we do have to be looking on when
we have our sight, God help us, but there's
one fine thing we have, to be looking on a
grand, white, handsome girl, the like of you
.... and every time I set my eyes on you
I do be blessing the saints, and the holy water,
and the power of the Lord Almighty in the
heavens above.

MOLLY BYRNE. I've heard the priests
say it isn't looking on a young girl would
teach many to be saying their prayers.

[Bailing water into her can with a cup.

MARTIN DOUL. It isn't many have
been the way I was, hearing your voice speak-
ing, and not seeing you at all.

MOLLY BYRNE. That should have been
a queer time for an old, wicked, coaxing fool
to be sitting there with your eyes shut, and
not seeing a sight of girl or woman passing
the road.

MARTIN DOUL. If it was a queer time
Itself it was great joy and pride I had the time
I'd hear your voice speaking and you passing
to Grianan {beginning to speak with plaintive
intensity), for it's of many a fine thing your
voice would put a poor dark fellow in mind,
and the day I'd hear it it's of little else at all
I would be thinking.

The Well of the Saints 55

MOLLY BYRNE. I'll tell your wife if
you talk to me the like of that. . . . You've
heard, maybe, she's below picking nettles for
the widow O'Flinn, who took great pity on
her when she seen the two of you fighting,
and yourself putting shame on her at the
crossing of the roads.

MARTIN DOUL — impatiently. — Is
there no living person can speak a score of
words to me, or say " God speed you," itself,
without putting me in mind of the old woman,
or that day either at Grianan?

MOLLY BYRNE — maliciously.— I was
thinking it should be a fine thing to put you
in mind of the day you called the grand day
of your life.

MARTIN DOUL. Grand day, is it?
(Plaintively again, throwing aside his work,
and leaning towards her.) Or a bad black day
when I was roused up and found I was the
like of the little children do be listening to
the stories of an old woman, and do be dream-
ing after in the dark night that it's in grand
houses of gold they are, with speckled horses
to ride, and do be waking again, in a short
while, and they destroyed with the cold, and
the thatch dripping, maybe, and the starved
ass braying in the yard?

56 The Well of the Saints

MOLLY BYRNE — working indifferent-
ly. — YouVe great romancing this day, Mar-
tin Doul. Was it up at the still you were
at the fall of night?

MARTIN DOUL — stands up, comes to-
wards her, but stands at far (right) side of
well. — It was not, Molly Byrne, but lying
down in a little rickety shed. . . . Lying down
across a sop of straw, and I thinking I was
seeing you walk, and hearing the sound of
your step on a dry road, and hearing you
again, and you laughing and making great
talk in a high room with dry timber lining the
roof. For it's a fine sound your voice has
that time, and it's better I am, I'm thinking,
lying down, the way a blind man does be
lying, than to be sitting here in the gray light
taking hard words of Timmy the smith.

MOLLY BYRNE — looking at him with
interest. — It's queer talk you have if it's a
little, old, shabby stump, of a man you are
itself.

MARTIN DOUL. I'm not so old as you
do hear them say.

MOLLY BYRNE. You're old, I'm think-
ing, to be talking that talk with a girl.

MARTIN DOUL — despondingly.— It's
not a lie you're telling, maybe, for it's long

The Well of the Saints 57

years Fm after losing from the world, feeling
love and talking love, with the old woman,
and I fooled the whole while with the lies of
rimmy the smith.

MOLLY BYRNE — half invitingly.— IV s
I fine way you're wanting to pay Timmy tht
smith. . . . And it's not his lies you're mak-
ing love to this day, Martin Doul.

MARTIN DOUL. It is not, Molly, and
the Lord forgive us all. (He passes behind
her and comes near her left.) For I've heard
tell there are lands beyond in Cahir Iveraghig
and the Reeks of Cork with warm sun in
them, and fine light in the sky. (Bending
towards her.) And light's a grand thing for
a man ever was blind, or a woman, with a
5ne neck, and a skin on her the like of you,
:he way we'd have a right to go off this day
till we'd have a fine life passing abroad
:hrough them towns of the south, and we tell-
ing stories, maybe, or singing songs at the
fairs.

MOLLY BYRNE — turning round half
iniused, and looking him over from head to
foot. — Well, isn't it a queer thing when your
:>wn wife's after leaving you because you're
1 pitiful show, you'd talk the like of that to

58 The Well of the Saints

MARTIN DOUL — drawing back a litl
hurt, but indignant. — It's a queer thing, ma
be, for all things is queer in the world, (j
a low voice with peculiar emphasis.) B
there's one thing Fm telling you, if she walki
off away from me, it wasn't because of seen
me, and I no more than I am, but because
w^as looking on her with my two eyes, and si
getting up, and eating her food, and combii
her hair, and lying down for her sleep.

MOLLY BYRNE — interested, off h
guard. — Wouldn't any married man you
have be doing the like of that?

MARTIN DOUL — seizing the mome
that he has her attention. — I'm thinking 1
the mercy of God it's few sees anything b
them is blind for a space {with excitement
It's a few sees the old woman rotting for tl
grave, and it's few sees the like of yoursel
{He bends over her.) Though it's shinir
you are, like a high lamp would drag in tl:
ships out of the sea.

MOLLY BYR'HE — shrinking away fm
him. — Keep off from me, Martin Doul.

MARTIN DOUL — quickly, with lou
furious intensity. — It's the truth I'm tellini
you. {He puts his hand on her shoulder an^
shakes her.) And you'd do right not t

The Well of the Saints 59

marry a man is after looking out a long while
on the bad days of the world; for what way
would the like of him have fit eyes to look on
yourself, when you rise up in the morning
and come out of the little door you have above
in the lane, the time it'd be a fine thing if a
man would be seeing, and losing his sight, the
way he'd have your two eyes facing him, and
he going the roads, and shining above him,
and he looking in the sky, and springing up
from the earth, the time he'd lower his head,
in place of the muck that seeing men do meet
all roads spread on the world.

MOLLY BYRNE — who has listened half
mesmerised, starting away, — It's the like of
that talk you'd hear from a man would be
losing his mind.

MARTIN DOUL — going after her, pass-
I xng to her right, — It'd be little wonder if a
man near the like of you would be losing his
mind. Put down your can now, and come
along with myself, for I'm seeing you this
day, seeing you, maybe, the way no man has
seen you in the world. {He takes her by the
arm and trys to pull her away softly to the
nght.) Let you come on now, I'm saying, to
the lands of Iveragh and the Reeks of Cork,
v/here you won't set down the width of your

6o The Well of the Saints

two feet and not be crushing fine flowers, and
making sweet smells in the air.

MOLLY BYRNE — laying down the can;
trying to free herself. — Leave me go, Martin
Doul! Leave me go, I'm saying!

MARTIN DOUL. Let you not be fool-
ing. Come along now the little path through
the trees.

MOLLY BYRNE — crytw^ out towards
forge. — Timmy — Timmy the smith.
(Timmy comes out of forge, and Martin Doul
lets her go. Molly Byrne, excited and breath-
less, pointing to Martin Doul.) Did ever you
hear that them that loses their sight loses their
senses along with it, Timmy the smith !

TIMMY — suspicious, but uncertain. —
He's no sense, surely, and he'll be having him-
self driven off this day from where he's good
sleeping, and feeding, and wages for his work.

MOLLY BYRNE — ay before.— U^s a
bigger fool than that, Timmy. Look on him
now, and tell me if that isn't a grand fellow
to think he's only to open his mouth to have
a fine woman, the like of me, running along
by his heels.

[Martin Doul recoils towards centre,
with his hand to his eyes; Mary Doul
is seen on left coining forward softly.

The Well of the Saints 6i

TIMMY — with blank amazement, — Oh,
the blind is wicked people, and it's no lie.
But he'll walk off this day and not be troub-
ling us more.

[Turns hack left and picks up Martin
D Old's coat and stick; some things fall
out of coat pocket, which he gathers
up again,

MARTIN DOUL — ^wrn^ around, sees
Mary Doul, whispers to Molly Byrne with
imploring agony. — Let you not put shame on
me, Molly, before herself and the smith. Let
you not put shame on me and I after saying
fine words to you, and dreaming . . . dreams
.... in the night. {He hesitates, and looks
round the sky.) Is it a storm of thunder is
coming, or the last end of the world? {He
staggers towards Mary Doul, tripping slightly
over tin can.) The heavens is closing, I'm
thinking, with darkness and great trouble
passing in the sky. {He reaches Mary Doul,
and seizes her left arm with both his hands —
with a frantic cry.) Is it darkness of thunder
is coming, Mary Doul ! Do you see me Clear-
ly with your eyes?

MARY DOUL — snatches her arm away,
and hits him with empty sack across the face.

62 The Well of the Saints

— I see you a sight too clearly, and let you
keep off from me now.

MOLLY BYRNE — clapping her hands.

— That's right, Mary. That's the way to
treat the like of him is after standing there at
my feet and asking me to go off with him,
till I'd grow an old wretched road-woman the
like of yourself.

MARY "DOUL — defiantly.— V^htn the
skin shrinks on your chin, Molly Byrne, there
won't be the like of you for a shrunk hag in -.
the four quarters of Ireland. . . . It's a fine f
pair you'd be, surely! .

[Martin Doul is standing at back right
centre, with his back to the audience. ^

TIMMY — coming over to Mary Doul—
Is it no shame you have to let on she'd ever \
be the like of you? ce

MARY DOUL. It's them that's fat and
flabby do be wrinkled young, and that whitish
yellowy hair she has does be soon turning the
like of a handful of thin grass you'd see rot-
ting, where the wet lies, at the north of a sty.
(Turning to go out on right.) Ah, it's a
better thing to have a simple, seemly face, the
like of my face, for two-score years, or fifty
itself, than to be setting fools mad a short

The Well of the Saints 63

^hile, and then to be turning a thing wovild
irive off the little children from your feet.

IShe goes out; Martin Doul has come
forward again, mastering himself, but
uncertain.

TIMMY. Oh, God protect us, Molly,
irom the words of the blind. (He throws
down Martin DouVs coat and stick.) There's
jour old rubbish now, Martin Doul, and let
you take it up, for it's all you ' ave, and walk
off through the world, for if ever I meet you
coming again, if it's seeing or blind you are
itself, I'll bring out the big hammer and hit ,
you a welt with it will leave you easy till the
judgment day.

I MARTIN DOUL — rousing himself with
[«n effort. — What call have you to talk the
ilike of that with myself?

TIMMY — pointing to Molly Byrne. —
It's well you know what call I have. It's well
you know a decent girl, I'm thinking to wed,
has no right to have her heart scalded with
hearing talk — and queer, bad talk, I'm
thinking — from a raggy-looking fool the
like of you.

MARTIN DOUL — raising his voice.—
It's making game of you she is, for what see-

64 The Well of the Saints

ing girl would marry with yourself? Look
on him, Molly, look on him, I'm saying, for
I'm seeing him still, and let you raise your
voice, for the time is come, and bid him go
up into his forge, and be sitting there by him-
self, sneezing and sweating, and he beating
pot-hooks till the judgment day.

[He seises her arm again.

MOLLY BYRNE. Keep him off from
me, Timmy!

TIMMY — pushing Martin Doul aside.—
Would you have me strike you, Martin Doul?
Gro along now after your wife, who's a fit
match for you, and leave Molly with myself.

MARTIN DOUL — despairingly.-
Won't you raise your voice, Molly, and lay
hell's long curse on his tongue?

MOLLY BYRNE — on Timmy' s left.-
ril be telling him it's destroyed I am with the
sight of you and the sound of your voice. Go
off now after your wife, and if she beats you
again, let you go after the tinker girls is above
running the hills, or down among the sluts of |
the town, and you'll learn one day, maybe,
the way a man should speak with a well-
reared, civil girl the like of me. {She takes
Timmy by the arm.) Come up now into the
forge till he'll be gone down a bit on the road,

The Well of the Saints 65

for it's near afeard I am of the wild look he
has come in his eyes.

[She goes into the forge. Timmy stops
in the doorway.

TIMMY. Let me not find you out here
again, Martin Doul. {He bares his arm.)
It's well you know Timmy the smith has
great strength in his arm, and it's a power of
things it has broken a sight harder than the
old bone of your skull.

[He goes into the forge and pulls the
door after him.

MARTIN DOUL — stands a moment with
his hand to his eyes. — And that's the last
thing I'm to set my sight on in the life of the
world — the villainy of a woman and the
bloody strength of \ man. Oh, Grod, pity a
poor, blind fellow, the way I -^ti this day with
no strength in me to do hurt to them at all.
{He begins groping about for a moment, then
stops.) Yet if I've no strength in me I've a
voice left for my prayers, and may God
blight them this day, and my own soul the
same hour with them, the way I'll see them
after, Molly Byrne and Timmy the smith, the
two of them on a 1 igh bed, and they screech-
ing in hell. . . . It'll be a grand thing that

66 The Well of the Saints

time to look on the two of them; and they
twisting and roaring out, and twisting and
roaring again, one day and the next day, and
each day always and ever. It's not blind
rU be that time, and it won't be hell to me,
Fm thinking, but the like of heaven itself;
and it's fine care FU be taking the Lord
Almighty doesn't know.

[He turns to grope out.

CURTAIN

ACT III

The same Scene as in first Act, but gap in
centre has been filled with briars, or branches
of some sort. Mary Doul, blind again, gropes
her way in on left, and sits as before. She
has a few rushes with her. It is an early
spring day.

MARY DOUL — mournfully. — Ah, God
help me . . . God help me; the blackness
wasn't so black at all the other time as it is
this time, and it's destroyed I'll be now, and
hard set to get my living working alone, when
it's few are passing and the winds are cold.
{She begins shredding rushes.) I'm think-
ing short days will be long days to me from
this time, and I sitting here, not seeing a blink,
or hearing a word, and no thought in my
mind but long prayers that Martin Doul'U get
his reward in a short while for the villainy of
his heart. It's great jokes the people'U be
making now, I'm thinking, and they pass me
by, pointing their fingers maybe, and asking
what place is himself, the way it's no quiet
or decency I'll have from this day till I'm an
old woman with long white hair and it twist-
ing from my brow. (She fumbles with her

68 The Well of the Saints

haifj and then seems to hear something. Lis-
tens for a moment, ) There's a queer, slouch-
ing step coming on the road. . . . God help
^nle, he's coming surely.

[She stays perfectly quiet. Martin Doul
gropes in on right, blind also.

MARTIN DOUL — gloomily.— Tht devil
mend Mary Doul for putting lies on me, and
letting on she was grand. The devil mend the
old Saint for letting me see it was lies. (He
sits down near her.) The devil mend Timmy
the smith for killing me with hard work, and
keeping me with an empty, windy stomach in
me, in the day and in the night. Ten thousand
devils mend the soul of Molly Byrne — (Mary
Doul nods her head with approval) — and
the bad, wicked souls is hidden in all the
women of the world. (He rocks himself,
with his hand over his face.) It's lonesome
ril be from this day, and if living people is
a bad lot, yet Mary Doul, herself, and she a
dirty, wrinkled-looking hag, was better maybe
to be sitting along with than no one at all.
I'll be getting my death now, I'm thinking,
sitting alone in the cold air, hearing the night
coming, and the blackbirds flying round in
the briars crying to themselves, the time you'll

The Well of the Saints 69

hear one cart getting off a long way in the
east, and another cart getting off a long way
in the west, and a dog barking maybe, and
a little wind turning the sticks. {He listens
and sighs heavily.) I'll be destroyed sitting
alone and losing my senses this time the way
I'm after losing my sight, for it'd make any
person afeard to ue sitting up hearing the
sound of his breath — {he moves his feet on
the stones] — and the noise of his feet, when
it's a power of queer things do be stirring,
little sticks breaking, and the grass moving —
{Mary Doul half sighs, and he turns on her
in horror) — till you'd take your dying oath
on sun and moon a thing was breathing on
the stones. {He listens towards her for a
moment, then starts up nervously, and gropes
about for his stick,) I'll be going now, I'm
thinking, but I'm not sure what place my
stick's in, and I'm destroyed with terror and
dread. {He touches her face as he is groping
about and cries out.) There's a thing with a
cold, living face on it sitting up at my side.
(He turns to run away, but misses his path
and stumbles in against the wall.) My road
is lost on me now! Oh, merciful God, set my
foot on the path this day, and I'll be saying
prayers morning and night, and not straining

70 The Well of the Saints

my ear after young girls, or doing any bad
thing till I die .

MARY DOUL — indignantly. — Let you
not be telling lies to the Almighty God.

MARTIN DOUL. Mary Doul, is it?
(Recovering himself with immense relief)
Is it Mary Doul, I'm saying?

MARY DOUL. There's a sweet tone in
your voice Fve not heard for a space. You're
taking me for Molly Byrne, I'm thinking.

MARTIN T>0\]1. — coming towards her,
wiping sweat from his face. — Well, sight's
a queer thing for upsetting a man. It's a
queer thing to think I'd live to this day to be
fearing the like of you; but if it's shaken I
am for a short while, I'll soon be coming to
myself.

MARY DOUL. You'll be grand then, and
it's no lie.

MARTIN DOUL — sitting down shyly,
some way off. — You've no call to be talking,
for I've heard tell you're as blind as myself.

MARY DOUL. If I am I'm bearing in
mind I'm married to a little dark stump of a
fellow looks the fool of the world, and I'll
be bearing in mind from this day the great
hullabuloo he's after making from hearing a
poor woman breathing quiet in her place.

The Well of the Saints. 71

MARTIN DOUL. And you'll be bearing
in mind, Fm thinking, what you seen a while
back when you looked down into a well, or a
clear pool, maybe, when there was no wind
stirrinig- and a good light in the sky.

MARY DOUL. I'm minding that surely,
for if I'm not the way the liars were saying
below I seen a thing in them pools put joy
and blessing in my heart.

[She puts her hand to her hair again.

MARTIN DOUL — laughing ironically. —
Well, they were saying below I was losing my
senses, but I never went any day the length
of that. . . . God help you, Mary Doul, if
you're not a wonder for looks, you're the mad-
dest female woman is walking the counties of
the east.

MARY DOUL — scornfully.— Yon were
saying all times you'd a great ear for hearing
the lies of the world. A great ear, God help
you, and you think you're using it now.

MARTIN DOUL. If it's not lies you're
telling would you have me think you're not
a wrinkled poor woman is looking like three
scores, or two scores and a half!

MARY DOUL. I would not, Martin.
(She leans forward earnestly.) For when
I seen myself in them pools, I seen my hair

72 The Well of the Saints

would be gray or white, maybe, in a shorH
while, and I seen with it that I'd a face woulc3
be a great wonder when it'll have soft whit^
hair falling around it, the way when Fm a:in
old woman there won't be the like of me
surely in the seven counties of the east.

MARTIN DOUL — with real admiration,

— You're a cute thinking woman, Mary Doul,
and it's no lie.

MARY DOUL — triumphantly. — I am,
surely, and I'm telling you a beautiful white-
haired woman is a grand thing to see, for
I'm told when Kitty Bawn was selling poteen
below, the young men itself would never tire
to be looking in her face.

MARTIN DOUL — taking off his hat and
feeling his head, speaking with hesitation.—
Did you think to look, Mary Doul, would
there be a whiteness the like of that coming
upon me?

MARY DOUL — with extreme contempt,

— On you, God help you! ... In a short
while you'll have a head on you as bald as
an old turnip you'd see rolling round in the
muck. You need never talk again of your
fine looks, Martin Doul, for the day of that
talk's gone for ever.

MARTIN DOUL. That's a hard word to

The Well of the Saints 73

^^ saying, for I was thinking if I'd a bit of
:omfort, the like of yourself, it's not far off
Are'd be from the good days went before, and
that'd be a wonder surely. But I'll never rest
easy, thinking you're a gray, beautiful woman,
and myself a pitiful show.

MARY DOUL. I can't help your looks,
Martin Doul. It wasn't myself made you
with your rat's eyes, and your big ears, and
your griseldy chin.

MARTIN DOUL — rubs his chin ruefully,
then beams with delight. — There's one thing
you've forgot, if you're a cute thinking woman
itself.

MARY DOUL. Your slouching feet, is
it? Or your hooky neck, or your two knees
is black with knocking one on the other?

MARTIN DOUL — with delighted scorn.
— There's talking for a cute woman. There's
talking, surely!

MARY DOUL — pusded at joy of his
voice. — If you'd anything but lies to say
you'd be talking to yourself.

MARTIN DOUL — bursting with excite-
ment. — I've this to say, Mary Doul. I'll be
letting my beard grow in a short while, a
beautiful, long, white, silken, streamy beard,
you wouldn't see the like of in the eastern

74 The Well of the Saints

world. . . . Ah, a white beard's a grand 1
thing on an old man, a grand thing for mak- rJ
ing the quality stop and be stretching out their
hands with good silver or gold, and a beard's a
thing you'll never have, so you may be holding
your tongue.

MARY DOUL — laughing cheerfully.-
Well, we're a great pair, surely, and it's great
times we'll have yet, maybe, and great talking
before we die.

. MARTIN DOUL. Great times from this
day, with the help of the Almighty God, for a
priest itself would believe the lies of an old
man would have a fine white beard growing
on his chin.

MArY DOUL. There's the sound of one
of them twittering yellow birds do be coming
in the spring-time from beyond the sea, and
there'll be a fine warmth now in the sun, and
a sweetness in the air, the way it'll be a grand
thing to be sitting here quiet and easy smell-
ing the things growing up, and budding from
the earth.

MARTIN DOUL. I'm smelling the furze
a while back sprouting on the hill, and if you'd
hold your tongue you'd hear the lambs of
Grianan, thong^h it's near drowned their cry-

The Well of the Saints 75

ing is with the full river making noises in the
glen.

MARY DOUL — /iy/^MJ. — The lambs is
bleating, surely, and there's cocks and laying
hens making a fine stir a mile off on the face
of the hill. (She starts.)

MARTIN DOUL. What's that is sound-
ing in the west?

[A faint sound of a bell is heard.

MARY DOUL. It's not the churches, for
the wind's blowing from the sea.

MARTIN DOUL — with dismay. — It's
the old Saint, I'm thinking, ringing his bell.

MARY DOUL. The Lord protect us
from the saints of God ! (They listen.) He's
coming this road, surely.

MARTIN DOUL— ^tentatively.— Wi]l we
be running off, Mary Doul?

MARY DOUL. What place would we
run?

MARTIN DOUL. There's the little path
going up through the sloughs. ... If we
reached the bank above, where the elders do
be growing, no person would see a sight of us,
if it was a hundred yeomen were passing
itself; but I'm afeard after the time we were
with our sight we'll not find our way to it at.
alL

76 The Well of the Saints

MARY DOUL — standing up. — YouM
find the way, surely. You're a grand man the
world knows at finding your way winter or
summer, if there was deep snow in it itself,
or thick grass and leaves, maybe, growing
from the earth.

MARTIN DOUL — 'taking her hand.—
Come a bit this way; it's here it begins.
(They grope about gap.) There's a tree
pulled into the gap, or a strange thing hap-
pened, since I was passing it before.

MARY DOUL. Would we have a right
to be crawling in below under the sticks?

MARTIN DOUL. It's hard set I am to
know what would be right. And isn't it a
poor thing to be blind when you can't run off
itself, and you fearing to see?

MARY DOUL — nearly in tears. — It's a
poor thing, God help us, and what good'U our
gray hairs be itself, if we have our sight, the
way we'll see them falling each day, and turn-
ing dirty in the rain?

[The bell sounds nearby.

MARTIN DOUL — in despair. — He's
coming now, and we won't get off from him
at all.

MARY DOUL. Could we hide in the bit

The Well of the Saints jy

of a briar is growing at the west butt of the
church?

[ MARTIN DOUL. We'll try that, surely.
{He listens a moment) Let you make haste;
I hear them trampling in the wood.

[They grope over to church.

MARY DOUL. It's the words of the
young girls making a great stir in the trees.
(^They find the hush.) Here's the briar on
ttiy left, Martin; I'll go in first, I'm the big
one, and I'm easy to see.

MARTIN J^OUL— turning his head anx-
iously. — It's easy heard you are ; and will you
be holding your tongue?

MARY DOUL — /^ar% behind bush.—
Come in now beside of me. {They kneel
down, still clearly visible.) Do you think
they can see us now, Martin Doul?

MARTIN DOUL. I'm thinking they
can't, but I'm hard set to know; for the lot
of them young girls, the devil save them,
lave sharp, terrible eyes, would pick out a
poor man, I'm thinking, and he lying below
hid in his grave.

MARY DOUL. Let you not be whisper-
ing sin, Martin Doul, or maybe it's the finger
of God they'd see pointing to ourselves.

MARTIN DOUL. It's yourself is speak-

78 The Well of the Saints

ing madness, Mary Doul; haven't you heard
the Saint say it's the wicked do be blind?

MARY DOUL. If it is you'd have a right
to speak a big, terrible word would make the
water not cure us at all.

MARTIN DOUL. What way would I
find a big, terrible word, and I shook with the
fear; and if I did itself, who'd know rightly
if it's good words or bad would save us this
day from himself?

MARY DOUL. They're coming. I hear
their feet on the stones.

[The Saint comes in on right, with
Timmy and Molly Byrne in holiday
clothes, the others as before.

TIMMY. I've heard tell Martin D6ul and
Mary Doul were seen this day about on the
road, holy father, and we were thinking you'd
have pity on them and cure them again.

SAINT. I would, maybe, but where are
they at all? I have little time left when I have
the two of you wed in the church.

MAT SIMON — at their seat, — There are
the rushes they do have lying round on the
stones. It's not far off they'll be, surely.

MOLLY BYRNE — pointing with aston-
ishment. — Look beyond, Timmy.

The Well of the Saints 79

[They all look over and see Martin
Doul.

TIMMY. Well, Martin's a lazy fellow to
be lying in there at the height of the day.
{He goes over shouting.) Let you get up out
of that. You were near losing a great chance
by your sleepiness this day, Martin Doul. . . .
The two of them's in it, God help us all !

MARTIN T>0\JI. — scrambling up with
Mary Doul. — What is it you want, Timmy,
that you can't leave us in peace?

TIMMY. The Saint's come to marry the
two of us, and I'm after speaking a word for
yourselves, the way he'll be curing you now;
for if you're a foolish man itself, I. do be pity-
ing you, for I've a kind heart, when I think
of you sitting dark again, and you after see-
ing a while and working for your bread.

[Martin Doul takes Mary DouVs hand
and tries to grope his way off right;
he has lost his hat, and they are both
covered with dust and grass seeds.

PEOPLE. You're going wrong. It's this
way, Martin Doul.

[They push him over in front of the
Saint, near centre. Martin Doul and
Mary Doul stand with piteous hang-
dog dejection.

8o The Well of the Saints

SAINT. Let you not be afeard, for there's^
great pity with the Lord. j

MARTIN DOUL. We aren't afeard,
holy father.

SAINT. It's many a time those that are
cured with the well of the four beauties of God
lose their sight when a time is gone, but those
I cure a second time go on seeing till the hour
of death. {He takes 4e cover from his can.)
I've a few drops only left of the water, but,
with the help of G ', i''ll be enough for the
two of you, and let you kneel down now upon
the road.

{Martin Doul wheels round with Mary
Doul and tries to get away.

SAINT. You can kneel down here, Fm
saying, we'll not trouble this time going to the
church.

TIMM\ — turning Martin Doui round,
angrily. — Are you going mad in your head,
Martin Doul? It's here you're to kneel. Did
you not hear his reverence, and he speaking
to you now?

SAINT. Kneel down, I'm saying, the
ground's dry at your feet.

MARTIN DOUL — wi/A distress.— \ji
you go on your own way, holy father. We're
not calling you at all.

The Well of the Saints 8i

SAINT. I'm not saying a word of pen-
ance, or fasting itself, for I'm thinking the
Lord has brought you great teaching in the
blindness of your eyes; so you've no call now
to be fearing me, but let you kneel down till
I give you your sight.

MARTIN DOUL — more troubled.—
We're not asking our sight, holy father, and
let you walk on your own way, and be fasting,
or praying, or doing anything that you will,
but leave us here in our peace, at the crossing
of the roads, for it's best we are this way, and
we're not asking to see.

SAINT — to the People. — Is his mind
gone that he's no wish to be cured this day,
or to be living or working, or looking on the
wonders of the world?

MARTIN DOUL. It's wonders enough I
seen in a short space for the life of one man
only.

SAINT — severely. — I never heard tell of
any person wouldn't have great joy to be
looking on the earth, and the image of the
Lord thrown upon men.

MARTIN DOUL — raising his voice.—
Them is great sights, holy father. . . . What
was it I seen when I first opened my eyes but

82 The Well of the Saints

your own bleeding feet, and they cut with the
stones? That was a great sight, maybe, of
the image of God. ... And what was it I
seen my last day but the villainy of hell look-
ing out from the eyes of the girl you're com-
ing to marry — the Lord forgive you — with
Timmy the smith. That was a great sight,
maybe. And wasn't it great sights I seen on
the roads when the north winds would be
driving, and the skies would be harsh, till
you'd see the horses and the asses, and the
dogs itself, maybe, with their heads hanging,
and they closing their eyes .

SAINT. And did you never hear tell of
the summer, and the fine spring, and the
places where the holy men of Ireland have
built up churches to the Lord? No man isn't
a madman, I'm thinking, would be talking the
like of that, and wishing to be closed up and
seeing no sight of the grand glittering seas,
and the furze that is opening above, and will
soon have the hills shining as if it was fine
creels of gold they were, rising to the sky.

MARTIN DOUL. Is it talking now you
are of Knock and Ballavore? Ah, it's our-
selves had finer sights than the like of them,
I'm telling you, when we were sitting a while
back hearing the birds and bees humming in

The Well of the Saints 83

every weed of the ditch, or when we'd be ■
smelling the sweet, beautiful smell does ^be j
rising in the warm nights, when you do hear
the swift flying things racing in the air, till
we'd be looking up in our own minds into a
grand sky, and seeing lakes, and big rivers,
and fine hills for taking the plough.

SAINT — #0 People.— There's little use
talking with the like of him.

MOLLY BYRNE. It's lazy he is, holy
father, and not wanting to work ; for a while
before you had him cured he was always talk-
ing, and wishing, and longing for his sight.

MARTIN DOUL — turning on her.— I
was longing, surely, for sight; but I seen my
fill in a short while with the look of my wife,
and the look of yourself, Molly Byrne, when
you'd the queer wicked grin in your eyes you
do have the time you're making game with a
man.

MOLLY BYRNE. Let you not mind him,
holy father ; for it's bad things he was saying
to me a while back — bad things for a married
man, your reverence — and you'd do right
surely to leave him in darkness, if it's that is
best fitting the villainy of his heart.

TIMMY — to Saint. — Would you cure
Mary Doul, your reverence, who is a quiet

84 The Well of the Saints

poor woman, never did hurt to any, or said
a hard word, saving only when she'd be vexed
with himself, or with young girls would be
making game of her below?

SAINT — /o Ma/ry DouL—Ii you have
any sense, Mary, kneel down at my feet, and
ni bring the sight again into your eyes.

MARTIxM DOUL — more defiantly.--
You will not, holy father. Would you have
her looking on me, and saying hard words to
me, till the hour of death?

SAINT — severely. — If she's wanting her
sight I wouldn't have the like of you stop her
at all. (To Mary Doul) Kneel down, I'm
saying.

MARY T>0\JL — doubtfully.— Ijtt us be
as we are, holy father, and then we'll be
known again in a short while as the people is
happy and blind, and be having an estsy time,
with no trouble to live, and we getting half-
pence on the road.

MOLLY BYRNE. Let you not be a rav-
ing fool, Mary Doul. Kneel down now, and
let him give you your sight, and himself can
be sitting here if he likes it best, and taking
halfpence on the road.

TIMMY. That's the truth, Mary; and if
it's choosing a wilful blindness you are, I'm

The Well of the Saints 85

thinking there isn't anyone in this place will
ever be giving you a hand's turn or a hap'orth
of meal, or be doing the little things you need
to keep you at all living in the world.

MAT SIMON. If you had your sight,
Mary, you could be walking up for him and
down with him, and be stitching his clothes,
and keeping a watch on him day and night
the way no other woman would come near
him at all.

MARY DOUL — half persuaded.— Thait's
the truth, maybe .

SAINT. Kneel down now, I'm saying,
for it's in haste I am to be going on with the
marriage and be walking my own way before
the fall of night.

THE PEOPLE. Kneel down^ Maryl
Kneel down when you're bid by the Saint !

MARY DOUL — looking uneasily towards
Martin Doul — Maybe it's right they are, and
I will if you wish it, holy father.

[She kneels down. The Saint takes off
his hat and gives it to some one near
him. All the men take off their hats.
He goes forward a step to take Martin
DouVs hand away from Mary Doul.

SAINT — ^0 Martin Doul— Go aside
now; we're not wanting^ you here.

86 The Well of the Saints

MARTIN DOUL — pushes him away
roughly, and stands with his left hand on
Mary DouVs shoulder, — Keep off yourself,
holy father, and let you not be taking my rest
from me in the darkness of my wife. . . •
What call has the like of you to be coming
between married people — that you're not
understanding at all — and be making a great
mess with the holy water you have, and the
length of your prayers? Go on now, I'm
saying, and leave us here on the road.

SAINT. If it was a seeing man I heard
talking to me the like of that I'd put a black
curse on him would weigh down his soul till
it'd be falling to hell; but you're a poor blind
sinner, Gk)d forgive you, and I don't mind
you at all. {He raises his can.) Go aside
now till I give the blessing to your wife, and
if you won't go with jrour own will, there
are those standing by will make you, surely.

MARTIN DOUL — pulling Mary DouL-—
Come along now, and don't mind him at all.

SAINT — m/^m(?w^/y, to the People.—
Let you take that man and drive him down
upon the road.

[Some men seise Martin Doul

MARTIN BOUL — struggling and shout-
ing. — Make them leave me go, holy father!

The Well of the Saints 87

Make them leave me go, Fm saying, and you
may cure her this day, or do anything that
you will.

SAINT — /o People.— Let him be

Let him be if his sense is come to him at all.

MARTIN DOUL — shakes himself loose,
feels for Mary Doul, sinking his voice to a
plausible whine. — You may cure herself,
surely, holy father; I wouldn't stop you at all
— and it's great joy she'll have looking on
your face — but let you cure myself along
with her, the way I'll see when it's lies she's
telling, and be looking out day and night upon
the holy men of God.

[He kneels down a little hefore Mary
Doul.

SAINT ^ speaking half to the People.—
Men who are dark a long while and thinking
over queer thoughts in their heads, aren't the
like of simple men, who do be working every
day, and praying, and living like ourselves;
so if he has found a right mind at the last
minute itself, I'll cure him, if the Lord will,
and not be thinking of the hard, foolish
words he's after saying this day to us all.

MARTIN DOUL — listening eagerly.—
I'm waiting now, holy father.

SAINT — with can in his hand, close to

88 The Well of the Saints

Martin DouL — With the power of the water
from the grave of the four beauties of Grod,
with the power o.' this water, Tm saying, that

I put upon your eyes -.

[He raises can.
MARTIN DOUL — with a sudden move-
ment strikes the can from the Saint's hand
and sends it rocketing across stage. He stands
up; People murmur loudly. — If Tm a poor
dark sinner I've sharp ears, God help me, and
have left you with a big head on you and
it's well I heard the little splash of the water
you had there in the can. Go on now, holy
father, for if you're a fine Saint itself, it's
more sense is in a blind man, and more power
maybe than you're thinking at all. Let you
walk on now with your worn feet, and your
welted knees, and your fasting, holy ways
a thin pitiful arm. {The Saint looks at
him for a moment severely, then turns away
and picks up his can. He pulls Mary Doul
up.) For if it's a right some of you have to
be working and sweating the like of Timmy
the smith, and a right some of you have to
be fasting and praying and talking holy talk
the like of yourself, I'm thinking it's a good
right ourselves have to be sitting blind, hear-
ing a soft wind turning round the little leaves
of the spring and feeling the sun, and we not

The Well of the Saints 89

tormenting our souls with the sight of the
gray days, and the holy men, and the dirty
feet is trampling the world.

[He gropes towards his stone with Mary
DouL
MAT SIMON. It'd be an unlucky fearful
thing, I'm thinking, to have the like of that
man living near us at all in the townland of
Grianan. Wouldn't he bring down a curse
upon us, holy father, from the heavens of
God?

/SAINT — tying his girdle, — God has
great mercy, but great wrath for them that
sin.

THE PEOPLE. Go on now, Martin
Doul. Go on from this place. Let you not
be bringing great storms or droughts on us
maybe from the power of the Lord.

[Some of them throw things at him.

MARTIN T>0\JL — turning round de-
fiantly and picking up a stone. — Keep off
now, the yelping lot of you, or it's more than
one maybe will get a bloody head on him with
the pitch of my stone. Keep off now, and let
you not be afeard; for we're going on the
two of us to the towns of the south, where
the people will have kind voices maybe, and
we won't know their bad looks or their
villainy at all {He takes Mary Doul's hand

90 The Well of the Saints

again.) Come along now and we'll be walk-
ing to the south, for we've seen too much oi
everyone in this place, and it's small joy we'i
have living near them, or hearing the lii
they do be telling from the gray of dawn till]
the night

MARY DOUL — despondingly.— That's I
the truth, surely ; and we'd have a right to be \
gone, if it's a long way itself, as I've heard j
them say, where you do have to be walking 1
with a slough of wet on the one side and a )
slough of wet on the other, and you going ;
a stony path with a north wind blowing be-
hind. [They go out

TIMMY. There's a power of deep rivers
with floods in tliem where you do have to
be lepping the stones and you going to the
south, so I'm thinking the two of them will
be drowned together in a short while, surely.

SAINT. They have chosen their lot, and
the Lord have mercy on their souls. (He
rings his bell.) And let the two of you come
up now into the church, Molly Byrne and
Timmy the smith, till I make your marriage
and put my blessing on you all.

[He turns to the chu/rch; procession
forms, and the curtain comes down,
as they go slowly into the church.

J^N2.8 1918

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Full text of "The Well of the Saints: A Comedy in Three Acts"

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